Commuters

Rusty the polar bear sloshed back his sud-soaked squeegy paw. From the other side of the windshield, he could see the bored face of yet another hyperactive and irritable rush-hour commuter ignoring his presence. For the commuter, Rusty was just another squeegy-punk loser species at another baked-asphalt intersection.

Rusty’d about had it up to here.

His clenched paw plowed through the safety-glass of the windshield. Perhaps it was all the pot, or the headache from the heat beating against his dirty fur, but Rusty felt no pain or remorse as his razor-sharp claws lunged through the broken glass and into the soft neck of the suburbanite motorist.

The sudden blood loss made the commuter drop his cell. In no time, he slumped over, dead in his Abercrombie and Fitch muscle shirt and spray-on tan.

…

Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, a few polar bears were having body-bag races and eating bean-stuffed human intestine on wheat buns. Jimmy and Orca had been chosen to organize the Polar Bear’s annual picnic and bake sale in Jasper National Park.

Jimmy had brought along some eyes for eye salad, potatoes for potato salad, and lettuce to make some commuter-on-rye sandwiches – with the crust removed, of course.

Orca, a vegetarian since her ice fields melted, decided to skip the commuter sandwiches and just eat raw nuts and berries, along with the wine.

But she got really loaded on the wine and ran into a clogged intersection full of SUVs and killed over a hundred drivers with her paws, laughing and singing Pat Benatar “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” the entire time she mangled the motorists and scratched the paint of their vehicles.

“Orc, honey, the picnic’s over here,” Jimmy whispered after her rampage, a smile sprouting on his furry white face. He knew she was just dealing with her inner demons in a creative way. This was Step 4.